ｃｌｕｎｋ
⇒ Be the Mobster
...
Most of the day was gone.
That's how long it had taken to patch the dumb broad up.
God. The sigh that came out of you was downright pathetic. It was too bad you dersites and prospitians didn't practice pity quadrants like the trolls did, or you might have actually gotten somewhere in your love life based on that sound alone. Though if you had to be real honest... you felt kinda pathetic most days.
You suppose that's why you liked to keep so busy. Probably how the girl'd conned you into this gig in the first place. Made it sound all appealing and shit.
...She didn't even speak English, for god's sake. How in hell had she convinced you? Didn't matter at this point. You were waist deep in this shit and wading throughit like trudging in sewers. You were the top boss and head honcho of shit. And all you had to show for it so far was shit stains.
Or blood stains. Dark red ones.
You didn't own any fancy suits, like those guys at the top of the feeding chain. They had suits that cost thousands. Aramni. Burberry.
....
Put that thought aside. You were so low in society that you couldn't name more than two brand names. But guys like Droog. Your bosses dressed in style. They probably would have been justified in this grumbling indignance about getting troll blood all over your suit. When she woke up, the broad would probably tell you that your suit was too cheap to really mourn. And she'd be right, but you'd act all pissed off anyway.
That's just how you did it.
You carried the girl in your arms like you were torn-- like you couldn't figure out whether to cradle her like something precious, or treat her like luggage. Right now, she definitely looked delicate. She looked broken. Her cheek was swollen all to hell and patched up with bandages. They'd done a number on her face. There were wrappings around her shoulder to keep her from moving it again, something torn in the scuffle to try and subdue her. Gashes. Ugly, mottled bruises.
A lot of stuff didn't show. Stuff you didn't get from a glanceover.
He hadn't asked.
When he'd first seen her in the ward though, broken little wreck arranged on the bed by whoever'd tended to her and looking unnaturally poised, his eyes had caught the thick wads of padding taped to her neck. He'd narrowed in on it immediately.
They'd caught her.
It wasn't the first time she'd got a brand. She'd been through a lot of holds before this. She had a list a mile long in her records. No-one kept her for long. No-one had the finesse or might to restrain her. No-one handled the broad. Wrangled her down long enough to get a mark on her? Sure. Plenty of times. But they just cut the flesh off and healed it over before selling her to the next buyer, leaving her looking as pristine as the day they'd caught her.
They'd do it to these marks too, soon as they healed over.
...This would've been the first cattlebrand though.
Brutal bastards of a conquering race that they were, the trolls were more advanced than that. When it came to legal stuff, like labeling their slaves like any other possession, so anyone could look at them and see who they belonged to-- they were neater about that kind of stuff. They had less savage ways to do it.
Mobsters had a certain flair though. You Earthlings, immigrated or otherwise, had a different way to do things.
That iron'd had to have hurt.
You've reached her cell.
⇒ You don't think she ever called it that to her friend. Yeah. The neon green one. The one that was only a secret 'cause she bullied you into taking guard shift and being the one to escort her whenever she wanted to take her pet sprite for a walk. The mopey pain in the ass that you couldn't get why she kept around, and that wouldn't be around if you hadn't had to bust your ass to keep the rest of the crew from finding out. You could only thank Skaia that the kitchen staff was on your side. That they had a soft spot for the broad.
..Naw. You'd heard her calling it a room or that troll term-- block-- when talking to him. The few times you picked out the familiar words and comprehensible sentences she peppered her East Alternian with like some fancy seasoning. (Just enough English to keep people paying attention so she could sneer smugly when you didn't understand again.) He probably didn't know what she did then.
Where he was staying.
She'd hid most of her marks from him. Been playing nice. Doing work. Probably didn't even realize herself how careful and conscious she'd been since he'd arrived. Since she'd started mentioning that other sprite in her conversations with him, unaware of the hope and admiration that crept into her voice unbidden every time she did.
She didn't realize how jaded she really wasn't. You..
..Another sigh.
You let her stay that way.
Her little friend was going to get a wakeup call though.
⇒ "Oi. Eyesore."
The carapacian swept aside the curtain to Damara's room without warning. For a decently sized guy, he was quiet as hell. Or maybe Erisolsprite was caught up in his work. Maybe he'd actually heard him coming and managed to hide. Maybe Erisolsprite wasn't used to any of the crew members coming anywhere near where the demon broad slept. Good. That meant he'd been doing his job right.
Regardless of what the sprite was doing, he had a damaged woman to pass off to him. He wasn't dealing with this shit any more.
"She's heavy as shit. Take her 'fore I drop her on th' floor."
Your name is Irascible Soldier. Erisolsprite would probably recognize you as that one dersite that lurked around all the time.